Never
by the object lesson
Summary: Whoever said it's "better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" has obviously never loved and lost. Hermione/Ginny.


"_Hermione…?"_

_I knocked lightly against the wooden bedpost. Tonight, of all nights, she decides not to stay up late reading. Honestly._

"_Hermione!"  
"Nghh… what?"  
"Are you awake?"_

_A disgruntled face appeared in a crack between the bed curtains._

"_Obviously, I am awake."_

_But I already crawled onto the bed, dragging the curtain shut behind me. I sat down and looked at her. Of course, she was beautiful, that was never the problem. She'd grown so much from the awkward girl with the bushy hair and stick legs who existed only in my young memories. She'd grown out her hair, and it probably needed some layers, but the length held it down and let it curl, at least when she didn't have it all wrapped up in a bun with her wand stuck through it. Her legs were … very exposed, as she sat on the bedspread with them crossed. I tried not to look. Anyone would want her, she wanted me. I liked that._

_It had been much easier in my dream. In my dream, I felt no hesitation. In my dream, all of me wanted this, wanted her, and there was nothing holding me back. Crawling out of bed, up the stairs, and into her room seemed like a great idea to my subconscious. Now, as she looked at me expectantly, all of the problems that plagued my waking hours rushed back in. But I wanted this, right? And it's not like anyone was ever going to find out._

_It took a half hour, but I did it. _I _kissed _her_. For the first time, I did it. But it took me a half hour to talk myself into it. As our lips moved together, and her hands touched my skin, both too soft, too foreign, I wondered if she knew that…_

I have no idea what I'm doing here.

I mean, what could possibly be gained from talking to her? It's not like I want to fix the friendship – fuck, I don't think I'm even capable of being friends with her. If we weren't even really friends before, there's no chance in hell we can be friends now. Not with how things fell apart, with how we ended.

Maybe I'm just tired of the feud, if that's even what's going on. I'm tired of carrying this bitterness around with me every day, like deadweight pulling me down. Of course, maybe I'm just a narcissistic bitch for thinking that there is still something between us, even if it's just a lot of hate and resentment. That's assuming she still gives a shit. I mean, there's no doubt that she did, once, but maybe she's actually done what I've always wanted to do, what I've never been able to do. Maybe she's forgotten I exist.

It's one thing to consider the possibility that she has really moved on, without actually knowing the truth. It's another thing entirely to have proof of the fact, which is exactly what I'm asking for, standing on her fucking doorstep. With all the baggage I'm carrying around, there's a part of me that never wants to consider that in leaving me behind, in destroying the last thing between her and a perfect life, she might actually have accomplished what she set out to do. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was the problem, and maybe getting rid of me was the cure.

See, that's it. Right there, I might've just discovered why I'm here. As much as it sucks to get written off as an inconvenience, a bad decision easily removed from the history of the lives of anyone I've ever loved, in this case, I almost can't fault her choice. I was the infected limb to her otherwise beautiful, healthy body. I don't agree that chopping me off was going to make everything wonderful and perfect, but even I can admit that she probably had a better shot at perfection without me. I mean, I said it myself, many times, that I was never going to be who she wanted, never going to love her the way she wanted me to. If I can't give you what you need, who am I to ask you to stay anyway? I think her methods were stupid, sure, but her intent made sense, even to me.

No, as much as I hate to admit it, when Hermione spoke the words, "I don't think we can be friends right now," even I knew she was probably right. No, the action was never my problem. Underneath it all, I care about her, I want her to be happy, even if it means I'll be miserable in return.

What I have a problem with is her timing.

"_Hermione?" I couldn't keep the shake out of my voice._

_She looked up from her book. Strangely, no one else was in the common room. It was late, but with all the terror seeping it's way over the castle walls, not everyone was sleeping as regularly as they used to. The reminder jarred me back to focus, and I saw she was looking at me with her forehead creased, like she did when she was thinking or when she was upset._

"_Yes? What's wrong?"  
I sighed, and even that shook.  
"I… I don't know, Hermione, I just feel like… like I'm falling apart."_

_She looked calm, but surprised at my admission. She closed her book and put it on the floor, and curled her legs underneath her in the chair. I remained standing, rooted in place. As the words passed my lips, they rang more true than ever. She didn't speak, obviously waiting for me to continue. I tried._

"_Like… like I'm holding the pieces together, but I'm slipping. When I wake up in the morning, I almost can't get out of bed, and when I lay down at night, I can't sleep because my thoughts are screaming. I've never felt so unsure, so unconfident in tomorrow. Hermione, I feel hopeless, it's scaring me. I feel like…"  
"Like what? You can tell me, you know. I just want to be there for you when you need me, love."  
"I feel like… giving up."_

Set the scene: end of my fifth year, her sixth. The war, really an under-the-table affair until now, has finally come out in the open. People are going missing. My family is in the middle of the opposition, the group of people who will try and most likely fail to bring down Voldemort and all that he stands for. The chances of all of us making it out alive… almost non-existent. Then, the boy I love, the one I know I will love until I die (which may be sooner, rather than later), decides we can't be together. My family is on crumbling ground, my life is on the brink of ruin, is it too selfish to want a friend to lean on? Your best friend? The one person that you've told everything, the only one who really knows what's going on, how you feel yourself falling apart on the inside.

After all, Hermione, you're the only one I ever told. Not Harry, not my family, no one but you knew how crazy I was starting to feel, how my hold on this reality was starting to slip. I only ever told you. Then, it was everything. I put everything I had to give in your hands.

And what did you do? You left. Gone. Poof. You packed your bags and took the only safety net I had left, and vanished.

I remember that day so well, all things considered.

_I walked into my kitchen. Amazing, that even while the my world fell apart on the outside, and on the inside, it still managed to look the same. Same yellow sun streaming through glass window panes. Same mismatched plates and cups in the cupboards, dishes scrubbed by floating sponges above the sink, rinsed and dried by invisible hands. Even the impending end of the world couldn't take away the cheerful, welcoming feel of my kitchen._

_But that note on the table could. _

_I went over and picked it up. The handwriting is very familiar, recognizable from years of notes under the table or in the halls. Before reading it, my eyes lock on the neat, cursive signature around the middle of the page._

_Hermione._

_It's not even a full page of writing. I start to read. My name's at the top, which now isn't surprising. Things have been weird between us, in a way they haven't been for a while. We've been having the same old problems, the same old confusion that's plagued our friendship since we both hit puberty. Tension._

_I quickly read the small paragraph. I didn't need to examine it word for word to understand what was going on. I thought we'd discussed this. I thought I'd sacrificed my dignity to plead with you to stay. Still, the note read, "I don't think it's a good idea for us to be friends right now." You gave a couple of reasons too. You said that you thought if you just waited long enough, that you could change my mind, wear me down, but that it wasn't working. You couldn't try anymore. You were never going to get over me, you said, if you keep hanging around. You needed to move on, and you couldn't do it and keep talking to me. Being there for me. Holding me up when I couldn't do it myself._

_Of course, you didn't write that last bit._

_When I read the note, I surprisingly felt nothing. I guess I'd been expecting this on some level for a while. The last time I saw you, considering all the tension that's gone on between us recently, you were too happy to see me, and I was instantly skeptical. Reading your note, I realized that you knew the whole time you were going to leave, and you just wanted one last time before you did._

_No, I could handle the note. It wasn't until I turned around and you were in my doorway that things started to break down._

_You stood there on the front step in the open door frame, looking at me. The urge to say "wow, you really suck at this whole 'not speaking' thing" was overwhelming, but I found I was actually too close to screaming to get the words out._

"_I came to tell you goodbye. I didn't want you to think I was a coward for just leaving a letter."_

_That time, sarcasm came to my aide. Or maybe it didn't, maybe I just thought the next part._

"_Don't glorify it, it's a note. And there isn't a lot you could do to change how I think of you now."_

Maybe I lied. Maybe I don't remember it as perfectly as I thought. I can't remember what was said. All I remember is feeling like the rug had just been pulled out from under me. More than that, feeling like I'd been teetering on the edge of a cliff for so long and she'd come by to give me a good shove, and now I was falling through space. I remember how it felt. How I tried to cry, tried to scream, and couldn't get the words out. How after I slammed the door in her face, I opened it immediately to plead with her, but she was gone.

All the times I told her we couldn't be together, to get over me before it was too late, and she waited till the _worst _possible moment to take my advice. Maybe I could've handled it, her leaving, when I was surrounded by friends, people who loved me and wanted me around, who thought I was a joy and not a curse. Maybe I could've seen her side of the story – it's not like she wasn't right on some levels. But the timing. Why did she wait until I had no one else? _That's_ what makes me want to scream.

And then I remember the crushing feeling of emptiness that came after. And 5 months later, when I confessed to Ron that I'd thought I'd have heard from her by now, how he told me Hermione were waiting for _me_ to find _her_, when I was ready. I screamed then. I got on my broom and nearly ran into a tree. Me, find her? After she said she was leaving? After she said not to write? She wanted _me _to fix it? Never. Never in a million years. I would be dead and dust before I showed up begging again. I hated her, she was pathetic. She could rot for all I cared.

_We'd kissed for a while. She'd slid us back down to the bed. I let her lie on top of me, like always, let her lead. I tried to relax, tried to want her, but I could feel myself hesitating at every turn. It felt… off. Good, but a mistake too. I was leading her on, making her think that we could finally be together. But no, she knew, she knew I couldn't, right? No matter how much I wanted to, sometimes. She knew I couldn't make it work, I'd told her before. _

_Sometimes I really tried. It seemed like it would be so easy, I mean, she loved me. She'd told me so, a hundred times. And I loved her too. More than a friend… I think. Yet something still made me nervous… was it her? Was it because she was a "her"? What if it wasn't that… I mean, I'd looked at other girls, hadn't I? Never touched them, sure, but wanted to. Sort of. What if it was _Hermione_? Or maybe I was just scared. What if my parents found out? They would be disgusted, wouldn't they?_

_She slid her hand down my pajama pants. It felt good, really good, but still not quite right. Not wrong… just not quite right. She could feel it too, though, right? I don't know why, I could never seem to really touch her back. I could always want to – I did always want to. But I really never could. I put my hand on her breast. It wasn't like I didn't know what to do – I have them too, after all – but it felt strange in my hand. Soft, yes, full, perfect probably, but awkward._

_Something was off… but she knew that. That this might be all I was capable of, that this was all I had to give. I'd told her that. I'd also told her I loved her, and I did. The only way I could. Surely, that counted for something..._

Here I am on her doorstep.

Hermione, I'll be honest with you. Most of me doesn't want to fix this. Now, instead of wishing I could go back and change what happened to us, mostly I wish I had never known you at all. Your parting words, "You're still my best friend," you didn't really think it was possible for me to ever love you again, did you? You know me, I'm not arrogant enough to deny it. As much as I claimed to have only shown you what I wanted you to see, I showed you way more than that. Most of me regrets it to my core, because I was trash as far as you were concerned, cleared away to make room for something better, someone who could be who you _wanted _her to be. But that doesn't change the fact that you've seen how I respond to betrayal, to abandonment. You didn't really think there was ever a way back, did you?

Just so you know, thinking about you and how you must've known there was no way we would ever be in the same room together after this, and how you did it anyway, is almost unbearable.

Because, while most of me would trade the world to erase you from my mind, there's a little part of me that never will, and it's standing on your doorstep. And it's that part that screams when it hears how happy you are without me, how easy it has been for you to walk away. You, who supposedly loved me more than I ever could love you, the victim of my manipulation and lies. If you're the victim, why do I feel so defeated?

It's strange that the more sane I feel, the stronger this urge to see you becomes. I don't know why I want to see you. Maybe it's because, for once, I don't have an agenda, another motive. Maybe it's because I _don't _know why. I've always thought the idea of closure was asinine, but not knowing what you think, how you feel about the past ten months of your life is almost unbearable. There are no words to describe the feeling I get when I think that I might actually be alone in this.

I'm sorry I couldn't be who you wanted. I'm sorry the way I loved you wasn't enough, that my friendship wasn't enough. I'm sorry that you couldn't turn me into what you needed, and I was of no value to you when you realized wearing me down until I gave in and fell in love with you was a lost cause. I'm sorry that I wouldn't uproot my whole life for you, alienate myself from my family to be with you. Mostly, I'm sorry you had to fall in love with me. It's not your fault, I don't blame you, but if you never loved me, we could've been real friends. I may have been the worst person for you, and if I'd known, I'd have done anything to save you from me, and in the end, save me from you, and from this.

The little part of me that loves you is making a stand, and asking you to see it again in the only way it knows how. The little part of me is about to knock on your door, and right now, it's asking you to open it. Not to leave it here, wondering if it's wasting more of its time. To come back for it.

I'd say it's the last and only time, but the truth is, it will never stop asking you.

-_Ginny_


End file.
